


No Malice Aforethought

by theoldgods



Series: Part of Our Game [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adrenaline, Background Relationships, Closet Sex, Clothed Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Grief/Mourning, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 13:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10742424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: The anniversary of Lord Smallwood's death finds Alicia on edge, something Mycroft can certainly help with, in his way, once he realizes why he's being led into a broom cupboard.





	No Malice Aforethought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alocin42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocin42/gifts).



> Please see the endnotes for content notes, if necessary. This is yet another casual sexual encounter in my string of Alicia/Mycroft porn, and as such it references earlier works in this series, though it should mostly stand alone as well.
> 
> Finding a timeline for season 4 was remarkably challenging, since there isn't really consensus, but I ended up following [this suggestion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9411503) and going with TFP taking place in fall 2015 (probably early fall 2015 in this porny subuniverse) and this thus being set at Christmas 2015, on the one-year anniversary of Lord Smallwood's suicide (which was pretty definitively Christmas 2014).
> 
> This owes a remarkable amount of inspiration to Nicola (enigmaticpenguinofdeath), who months ago spitballed about half this plot for shits and giggles. It's here at last! Thanks to her and to Lou (thediogenes) for their Britpicking skills as well; any remaining Americanisms in vocab are my fault, of course, and corrections on that point are welcome.
> 
> I blog about Mycroft, BBC Sherlock, and loads of other stuff at my [tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined!

****She woke before her alarm with her chest bound in iron, though it took several heartbeats to remember why. The last week had been spent dodging polite, badly disguised inquiries and offers of help from her colleagues, as well as ignoring calls from the therapist’s office, meaning that her free time had been spent avoiding thinking about Woody. Nonetheless, exactly one year after she tripped over him dead on the country house’s sitting room floor, she could wake and, for five seconds, forget even that he existed.

When it pushed its way into her consciousness, the agony—the stab of pain directly between two ribs, sharp as a knife and blisteringly cold—startled her, as did the taste of salt on her lips. When she rose and examined her face in the bathroom mirror, her eyes were the dull, aching red of a long crying jag, her throat tight around a ball of grief.

She cried further in the shower, water and tears mingling on her cheeks, the scent of her shampoo nauseatingly cloying in her nostrils. She rinsed it free before turning the water as hot as it would go and allowing the scalding across her back to drown out the numb wetness of her face and throat.

By the time she was dressed and made up, her face was placid and pale once more, though her hands trembled as she pinned up her hair.

An hour into the working day, she had experienced at least five second glances, two concerned looks, and one set of raised eyebrows, though no one had yet dared to ask why she had come into the office. (The reply she had prepared— _And_ you  _don’t have anywhere better to be two days before Christmas?_ —was cruel but not, she told herself, unjustified.) Her ribs constricted her heart near-continuously, though any compulsion to cry seemed to have been replaced with a yawning desire to run instead, a dose of adrenaline not unlike what she remembered from her first time queueing for a turn at the vault.

The kick of energy increased when she entered the room for her ten o’clock to find Anthea standing behind Mycroft’s chair, murmuring into his ear as the other attendees filed in around them. Anthea glanced up and nodded once, her face inscrutable as ever, though her eyes twinkled. Mycroft did not look in her direction, even as they settled in, Anthea and the other plus-ones disappeared into the hallway, and Edwin opened the meeting.

“We all have better places to be than this, I’m sure, even if it’s your own kitchen alone with a large bottle—” the room tittered “—so let’s see if we can keep it to the allotted three hours this time, shall we?”

After fifteen minutes, the attention of the MI6 backbenchers against the far wall was straying, as evidenced by their speculative glances in her direction when they thought her focused on the meeting. After half an hour, Mycroft, having verbally sparred with Edwin once already, to what she considered a draw, looked up to meet her gaze for the first time in response to her query for clarification, though he did not blush. When Anthea pulled him out at the hour mark, she watched him go, and she spent Edwin’s fifteen minutes of questioning that followed imagining Mycroft writhing on the floor, cuffed to the table between her legs as she had so often threatened.

The idea was pleasant, of course, a comforting hum of arousal at the back of her mind as Edwin argued points of infosec protocol with one of her MI6 admirers. When Mycroft eventually returned to the room, a tuft of mussed hair above his left ear, she felt her thigh muscles contract and her chest tighten until she was breathless.

It was, apparently, possible to be both distinctly sad and uncomfortably aroused in a high-security meeting.

By the time they broke for lunch at noon, Edwin’s dire threats about being on their best behavior for Herself in the afternoon session ringing in their ears, her cunt was tingling, as heat ran through her lower abdomen and legs. In the hallway, Anthea was nowhere in sight, but Mycroft’s broad shoulders loomed where he stood scowling at a biscuit.

“Poor choice.”

His face was legitimately startled as he looked up at her, though he settled quickly.

“Have you anything better on offer, my lady?”

There was no hint of innuendo or seduction. Mycroft Holmes spent his lunch breaks thinking about the ignoble state of the world and his own family, probably, with half a second’s thought for food. He likely imagined her hoarding some sort of especially posh lunch that came delivered to peers on silver platters, and perhaps there was a good cutting remark he had prepared to make in return, a traded piece of wit and status.

There was also—Mycroft having hermited himself into an antisocial corridor away from the main rush of building traffic—no one else in sight. She had him back against the wall, her mind buzzing, and a hand on his waist before either of them knew what was happening.

“Alicia—”

There was a broom cupboard of sorts not five meters behind him, something she knew mainly from the time years ago when she had been trying every door in the corridor in search of a ladies that had been, in the end, on the floor above. Mycroft sputtered as she pushed him toward it, though he did not attempt to move away when she released him to open the door, before shoving him inside.

The cupboard was, unsurprisingly, pitch black with the door closed behind them both. Equally unsurprising was Mycroft’s success at finding the cord pull for the dingy overhead bulb, which dramatically illuminated his wide-eyed expression. He was standing backed against a bucket, his head centimeters from the tangled strands of two well-used mops. There was, she figured, perhaps just enough room either side to breathe, though there wasn’t a full meter in any direction.

“Surely there are better places to ta— _Christ_.”

Her hand closed around his cock, cupping it through his trousers as the other began working his zip.

“Not really interested in your conversation at the moment.” Her heartbeat thudded in her pelvis, and as she pressed in closer to his body, her legs framing his, the scent of his cologne set her head spinning. “You'd be doing me a favor.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, leaning against the wall behind him as she kicked the bucket out of the way.

“Do you often—this isn't—”

She reached into his pants and drew out his soft cock as he continued to babble.

“Probably won't take very long.” His prick twitched faintly in her grasp, and she could feel the manic grin spreading across her face in response. “Just stand there, really.”

“There are _people_ outside.”

She tightened her grip and listened to his bitten-off whimper before speaking. “I don’t see that as a problem, personally.”

“What do you—what do you want from me?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That is—” his faltering tongue was impressive, considering the flaccid state of his cock and the tremor rippling under her hand on his hipbone “—maybe instead a—a finger—”

She stroked upward to the head of his cock, and he bit down on his own arm to stifle his cry.

“I have some of my own.” Her blood was pounding, narrowing the edges of her vision. “As I said, it would be...a favor. I would—owe—you.”

The words were heavy on her lips, and Mycroft caught her hesitation, searching her face. After a moment his eyes softened, and her stomach lurched.

“Alicia, I’m sorry, I forgot—”

She gripped his balls and watched his eyes roll back into his head. Her hands were shaking around him, something she wagered he would notice even through the haze of confusion and rising interest.

“Please don’t.” Her throat was wet and hot; she swallowed, biting her lip. “We were doing so well, and we haven’t time.” She released him, hand hovering over his cock, and waited for him to open his eyes. “Please.”

His hand closed around her wrist, the briefest touch, before transferring to the waistband of her skirt.

“I can’t get—I’m too old for a quick—there are _mops_.”

Her laugh burbled out of her, senseless and quicksilver-bright in the close quarters around them. The words spilled after them.

“I’d take them out, but surely that would just attract attention.”

He glanced at the bucket before replying.

“There's nowhere else?”

“We haven't _time_.” Her forehead and cunt both throbbed, just out of sync with one another. She reached up under her skirt to unhook one suspender as Mycroft’s grip tightened around her waist. The second was slippery in her grasp, sliding against the sweat building on her fingers, as she tossed it to the floor alongside its partner. “Would you—”

He slid a thumb to her clit, pressing over her knickers, and she inhaled.

“Off, get them—”

His fingers scraped her skin as he struggled to obey, pulling her knickers down to her thighs, followed by the garter belt. She replaced his hand with her own and stepped out of both, kicking them next to the suspenders. One of Mycroft’s hands drifted to the top of a stocking, and she stood on her toes to angle herself closer to his waist.

“In.” Her breath seared the back of her throat on each exhale as she moved his hand from her thigh to her curls. “Inside.”

He used two trembling fingers, jerking inside with a burst that bordered on pain. She muffled her groan against her wrist as he cursed and wrapped his second hand around her arse for counterbalance.

“Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

He slid his thumb back over her clit, and she bit down into her own skin to stifle the noise as waves of electricity shot into her stomach and down to her knees. As he settled into a rhythm, she moved her hand to the base of his cock, now partially hard.

“This. Can you—harder—?”

Mycroft’s eyes fluttered as, squeezing, she stroked. His mouth was part smile and part grimace as he answered.

“Not in my experience.”

Her temples pounded; her hips canted toward his, forcing his fingers in deeper and sending a slug of heat into her pelvis. She stretched further upward, curling into his ear, and opened her mouth.

“Is cupboard shagging in your experience?”

Her voice was hoarse. Mycroft whimpered and dug his thumb in harder, setting off pinpricks of white under her eyelids when she blinked. She licked her lips and tweaked the head of his cock.

“I don’t suppose your friend goes in for it.” The words came suddenly more clearly and fluidly, despite the building pressure beneath her waist, imagining Mycroft, trousers around his ankles, impaled while his pretty companion straddled a WET FLOOR sign. “Not enough strength.”

Mycroft bent closer into her, a lock of hair brushing the top of her head. “He has—nice thighs.”

She was wanking him in earnest now, though her hand slipped as she tittered.

“Not _his_ thighs I’m worried about.”

He gripped the top of her arse tightly, fingers dragging in the fabric of her skirt, as the heat of his length twitched against her skin.

“I can’t.”

A scream burst in the back of her mouth, though she bit her tongue to silence it. Her hands, she noted distantly while he panted against her neck, were tugging at his pants and trousers, pushing them further down his thighs, as he groaned.

“But _I_ can; I want to try.” She squeezed, and his lips streaked against her skin, hot and stuttering. “Just stand, darling. I’ll even do all the bloody work.”

He shuddered.

“Condom?”

Again the laugh, tripping on her tongue and teeth on its way out of her, making an erotic farce out of what she dimly knew was an entirely rational question.

“Christ. I had no malice aforethought, darling.” She tapped her teeth against the curve of his jaw as he slid his fingers out of her and into his pocket. “Surely fucking not.”

His voice was breathless as he removed a matte metallic money clip and, from between two cards, drew out a thin packet. “Surely fucking _yes_.”

His lips against hers were thin and dry, tasting dimly of mint, as she held him to her by the back of his neck. When they broke apart an instant later, his eyes, gone mostly black, were enormous in his face.

“Bloody fool. Sorry.” She plucked the condom from his hand and opened the wrapper in one long and shaky tear, its foil whispering against her fingertips. “You glorious whore.”

Mycroft’s cheeks lifted with his slow and uncertain smile, though his face and mouth melded together into a gasp as she slid the latex over him, feeling him expand into full hardness under her touch.

“Why’d you—never mind,” she interrupted herself as he opened his mouth to respond. “Don’t care now.” She draped one arm over his shoulder as she stroked his balls, her voice slurred as she continued. “Should’ve known you’d be prepared.”

One of his arms went around her waist as the other slid down the front of her blouse, picking at the topmost buttons until her bra was exposed to the cupboard air, such as it was.

“God, you—” Mycroft shivered as she brushed his frenulum “—are we really—”

She took his chin in her hand. Frisson ran from her spine to her cunt as their eyes locked. She moved her knee to the wall at his chest height and, one hand above his head, used her other hand to push her skirt up to her waist and resettle his grip on her arse.

“Lots of practice, once.”

She jumped, and his hands flew out to meet her thighs, supporting her, as her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Hush,” she murmured over his moan, mouthing the tip of his ear. When the noise only increased in volume, she slid her hand over his mouth. “Don’t let’s set off alarms.”

His lips tickled her palm as he replied, though the sense of it was lost in the thudding of her heart in her ears. She reached down to pull his cock straighter, angling it toward herself.

“In?”

Above her grip his eyes blinked erratically. She freed his mouth and he took in a raspy breath.

“Yes.”

Her thighs twitched with the effort of lowering herself onto him, holding the base steady with one hand as she braced herself against the wall with the other. His fingers were bruising points of contact around her thighs and arse as his tip slid into her and a flash of pinprick pain ran up into her lower abdomen, followed by a deeper electric jolt. Her head tilted back as his voice rose around them again.

“Dear _God_.”

She lowered herself another two or so centimeters as he swallowed a deeper groan, then bit her own lip to keep from crying out as she took him in until her cunt spasmed around him and her vision blurred.

“Fuck,” she whispered eventually, blinking her eyes clear. Mycroft had his head back against the wall and his eyelids closed. “Still there?”

His hips rocked up into her, driving him near her cervix; she gasped and pushed down in return. The width of him was on the good side of painful, a warm rod firing her nerves from her legs to the base of her spine.

“The less movement the better,” she told him, as she pulled herself up until only the tip remained inside. Mycroft grunted as she hovered, then moaned as she slid back down his length.

His arms were trembling against her, and though the stretch in her legs was deep and thus far satisfying, her ability to hold herself above the ground with minimal support was not unlimited. She moved up and then down a second time, a third, Mycroft’s noises fading into the background behind her own racing heart and the bursts of sensation up her spine. When she took him in particularly far on the fourth attempt, she pressed her arm against her mouth to stifle the groan that accompanied the clench of her cunt.

Her strokes grew in speed and depth; this was a warm dildo indeed, bracing and grounding her roiling energy into something more focused, if also more primal. A finger drifted to her clit and began to rub in tandem with the motion of her hips, brutally bright and sparking against the deeper stretch of the cock within her.

“The most—insane—”

His voice was distant, though his face was mere centimeters from her chest; when he shifted his torso forward, she felt the ghost of his breath across the base of her neck a moment before his lips made contact with her skin.

“ _God_ —”

His words rumbled against her collarbone, making her twinge. She picked up her pace further, her thighs beginning to burn. It was nearly like riding in truth, legs astride a horse, rising with the trot, though she had done little of that since...

“Little more of that, darling.”

His mouth and chin were slick against her chest, his voice choked. “Of what?”

She stroked her clit faster, driving down hard onto Mycroft as he moaned.

“Bless you.”

She came slowly, her mouth open but silent, lurching around the edge before tipping over in an explosion of white and black, jerking her hand away from the sharp sweet pain bursting in her clit. Underneath the rush she felt herself clenching around Mycroft and heard his muttered swears as he leaned away from her, pushing the top of his head back into the wall. Her thighs protested as she came down into herself, though her cunt, wet and thickened, sent soothing pulses into her stomach.

Mycroft’s face was shining with sweat, his ears and cheeks a brilliant red as his hips rocked. His cock was still iron within her as she slid a hand under his chin.

“And you?”

He whimpered. “Please.”

She tightened around him; his mouth fell open. She slid off in a blur of oxytocin and the buzzing remnants of the day, lurking beneath her happy orgasmic cocktail, and once back on the floor she touched her still-throbbing cunt.

“Let me—”

One hand slid to the head of his cock and one between her thighs, alongside her own, and a ripple of genuine pleasure slid up to her brain.

“What do you want, pet?”

He was on his knees in two of her dazed blinks, a hand still wrapped around his cock as the other slithered back to her arse. His lips against her curls had her shuddering.

“Obvious, I suppose.” She removed her hand from her cunt and dragged the damp fingers through his hair as he sighed. “I can’t reach you like this.”

He bent to kiss her, his tongue a brand, and the bank of heat between her legs flared up toward her navel.

“Not necessary.” He massaged his fingers more deeply into her arse. “I’ll be quick.”

She choked on her laugh as he buried his mouth in her.

She ached where his lips touched, pinpricks of sensation taut enough to be painful spiraling out from her cunt. When his tongue slid inside, she tightened her grip in his hair until he whined.

“Good boy.”

His arm knocked against her legs as he pulled at his cock, increasingly frantic strokes mirrored by the sloppiness of his lips and tongue. He dug in with nose and tongue, buried within her folds, and spread messy kisses from her clit to her cunt as she shifted and, wrapping a hand around his neck, pushed him deeper, pulling at the hair there as heat swamped her brain.

When it was done, and her loins ached with sensitivity, she stepped out of Mycroft’s grip and, before he could complain, pushed a finger, still wet, past his swollen lips. He came moments later with a final thrust into his fist, sobbing around her finger, and remained frozen but shivering as she slid free and began rebuttoning her blouse.

“Was it—okay?”

His eyes were watery silver, looking up at her from his crouched position on the floor, his elbows centimeters from the bucket. She smiled as she stepped back into her knickers and garter belt, pulled her skirt back down around her thighs, and bent to pick up her suspenders.

“Better than.” Her heart was bruising her ribs again, tight and painful, though the adrenaline spikes had been replaced with a numb and mournful serenity. “A glorious distraction. Thank you, Mycroft.” She swallowed around the ball forming in her throat again. “I owe you.”

“It’s his, the condom. A parked car, two days ago.” Mycroft looked at the mops, his mouth a faintly distasteful moue, though his voice bordered on beatific. “You still took my cupboard virginity.”

“We do get adventurous in our dotage, don’t we?” She nodded at his still sheathed cock before checking her watch. “I’ll sneak out first, leave you to deal with that. There are ten minutes until session begins again.”

He rolled his eyes. She left the cupboard with a smirk on her face, one that lingered as she snuck into the ladies—thankfully empty—to reset her hair and makeup and slide back into her suspenders. When she reentered the meeting room, Anthea was hovering by the doors, though Mycroft was nowhere in sight.

“Lady Smallwood.” Anthea’s eyes glinted. “Happy Christmas.”

Her cunt twinged; she nodded. “Happy Christmas, Anthea.”

Anthea drifted toward the hall, looking back coyly over her shoulder. “Have you seen Mr. Holmes? I had a few things for him before the prime minister’s arrival, but…”

“I haven’t, I’m afraid.”

She was still pleasantly jittery as she took her seat, though Edwin leaned over to her almost at once.

“Do you know where Mycroft is?”

“A popular question.” When Edwin raised an eyebrow, she continued, “I don’t, I’m afraid. The loo?”

“Does he even _need_ to use the loo?” Edwin sighed. “If he’s late for the PM, he’ll deserve the skinning he gets.”

“ _That_ is true.”

Edwin’s eyes raked her face; she dug her nails into her palm beneath the table as he asked, “And are you having a...decent...Christmas season?”

Edwin had never bothered to ask before, any of the years when the answer might have charitably been in the vicinity of _not bad_. His voice wasn’t entirely patronizing, so probably he was even half-sincerely interested in her welfare, or at the very least in what “Shamed peer takes own life” might look like a year on.

“Dreadful.” As Edwin’s cheeks colored, she continued, picturing Mycroft’s open mouth against her thigh, “We find the bright spots as we go, though, don’t we?”

Before he could reply, the door slammed shut; the hall turned to watch Mycroft, red-faced and faintly shiny, slide into his seat. She let the admonishment fall from her lips almost languidly.

“Kind of you to join us, Mr. Holmes.”

When Mycroft looked up, his face was the politest _fuck you_ mask she’d seen from him in weeks, though when all eyes were on Herself’s entrance a minute later, her phone buzzed in her lap.

_For future reference, cleaner mops are more effective._

She smiled as Edwin began to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains references to canonical suicide, as well as less than sterling coping mechanisms that include making somewhat aggressive sexual maneuvers on an uncertain party before consent is explicitly given.


End file.
